[ tw: death, violence ]
𝖝𝖑𝖎𝖝. New Town
Maeve
THERE ARE NO STARS this close to New Town. The sky around the slum is permanently choked with a haze of pollution. It smells foul and poisonous, even on the outskirts, where the noxious fog is thinnest. Maeve draws up the handkerchief around her neck, breathing through the fabric instead.
The other soldiers around her do the same, pulling faces at her toxic air. But not Blake. She's used to it.
Relief washes over Maeve every time she looks at the younger girl. She's never too far, scattered along with the soldiers just as Weston and Nick are. Maeve keeps an eye on all of them. Still, when her eyes land on Blake, her relief quickly melts to shame.
Blake escaped the Piedmont base, fleeing into the swamps with her brother and a few dozen more survivors. Many died where she did not. Red soldiers of the Dagger Legion, children Maeve and the rest of the Guard swore to keep safe. Newbloods of Montfort. Newbloods of the Notch. Silvers. Reds. So many dead it makes Maeve's head spin.
And now she's sending Blake right back into danger.
"Thanks for doing this," the Deuveux murmurs, her voice almost inaudible. As if a simple thank you means anything.
With a grin, Blake glances over her shoulder at Maeve. Her teeth gleam in the weak light of the soldiers' lanterns. In spite of the dire circumstances, the electricon has never seen the sixteen-year-old smile like she does tonight.
"As if you could get this done without me," Blake whispers back, almost teasing. "But don't thank me, Maeve. I've been dreaming about a day like this since I was a little girl. New Town is not going to know what fucking hit it."
"No, it won't," Maeve mutters to herself, agreeing as she thinks of the morning ahead of them.
Fear and nerves carve her up, as they did on the flight from the Rift. She and the others are about to storm the tech slum Blake was born in, a place hemmed in by walls and guards and decades of oppression.
And they're not the only assault on the move. Miles to the east, the rest of their coalition is heading toward Harbor Bay.
Matthew's with that arsenal. Not Maeve's. She tries not to think about it.
The Rift soldiers will attack from the sea, with the Brekker fleet ready on the wing. Cyrus and Matthew must be in the tunnels by now, ready to lead the main bulk of the army up into the city. Maeve tries to picture the three-pronged assault in her mind. It's nothing like any battle she's survived before. Neither is this, separated from the fire prince, from Cyrus. From so many dear to her. At least she has Weston and Nick at her sides. She supposes there's some symmetry with the aforementioned and herself being here together. They've returned to who they were before. Creeping in alleys, clad in dirty clothes. Their faces obscured and unfamiliar. Shadows. Rats.
Rats with sharper teeth and longer claws ━ Reds.
"These trees are rotting," Blake says aloud, drawing a hand down the black bark of a barrier tree. Greenwarden-made, they ring all the tech towns, marching up to their walls. "Whoever grew these doesn't care to maintain them. Whatever they're supposed to do, they aren't really doing it anymore.
"They think they're just poisoning us," she continues, her voice seething. "They're poisoning themselves, too."
The group moves under the cover of Clair shadows and the muffling ability of Fawn, one of Maeve's old newblood recruits from the Notch. Instead of disguising their fifty troops individually, they mask the group as a whole, throwing abilities over them like blankets. They're invisible and inaudible to anyone outside their circle of influence, able to pass in plain sight. They can see and hear one another, but no one a few yards away can see or hear them.
Premier Dawson steps softly behind Maeve, flanked by his own guards. The vast majority of the Montfort army will assault Harbor Bay, but a few key newbloods are here with him. They don't have their usual uniforms. Even Marzia, Tristan, and Jeremiah have their hair covered, wrapped in scarves or hats. They all blend in with the rest of the group, dressed in discards ━ rags, hastily patched jackets, and threadbare pants. All tech-issue clothing, courtesy of the Whistles smuggling network. Maeve wonders if a thief passed them on. A girl with no other choice than to steal. No other way to survive.
The air thickens as they approach, and more than a few of them cough, gagging on the taste of smoke and fumes. Nick is one of the best at ignoring it, probably due to his years in the Choke. He's gained a tolerance for it.
"Mae." Weston nudges her arm. "Wall's coming up," he says in warning.
She can only nod in thanks, squinting through the trees. Indeed the squat, thick walls of New Town loom ahead. Not as impressive as the diamondglass of a royal palace, or as intimidating as the high stone walls of a Silver city. But still an obstacle to overcome.
Leadership suits Blake, though Maeve knows she'll never admit it. The sixteen-year-old silencer squares her shoulders as they approach. Maeve can't help but think that no teenager should be as calm, collected, and fearless as Blake is.
"Watch your feet," the Scott girl hisses, letting the message pass through their ranks. With a click, she switches on her dim, red flashlight. The rest of them follow suit, except for the Clair shadows. They only deepen their focus, masking the hellish glow. "The tunnels come up behind the tree line. Drag your toes. Look for thick undergrowth."
They do as she says, though Weston covers far more ground than Maeve does. He kicks his long legs through the dead and rotting leaves, feeling for the telltale hardness of a trapdoor. "Don't suppose you remember exactly where it is, do you?" he grumbles at Blake.
She looks up from a crouch on the ground, her hands in the leaves. "I've never been in the tunnels before," she huffs. "Not old enough to make the smuggle runs. Besides, that's not my family's way," she adds, her eyes narrowing. "Keep your head down, that's what we always held to. And see where it got us?"
"Digging through the dirt for a hole," Weston answers. Maeve hears the smirk in his voice.
She also hears his yelp of pain after Nick kicks his shin. "Leading an army," the prince offers. "That's where you got yourself, Blake."
Blake's expression changes, tightening. But her lips pull into something close to a smile. A sad one. Maeve understands it. The Scott girl said before, in Corvium, that she was done with the killing. Done with the lethal burden of her ability to silence and suffocate. Her goal now is to protect. Defend. Though she has more cause than most to feel rage, to seek vengeance, she has the infinite strength to turn away.
Maeve doesn't.
THE TUNNELS GLOW with the red of the flashlights, batching them all in crimson. Even the Silvers sworn to Matt or the Rift. The Clair shadows, the Lovelace silks. A dozen of them, scattered into their numbers. All of them, for a moment, red as the dawn.
Maeve keeps an eye on them as she walks, passing beneath the walls of New Town. They have orders from their lords and kings. She doesn't trust them, not by a long shot, but she trusts their allegiances. Silvers are loyal to blood. They do as blood commands.
Nick doesn't, of course. He hates the color of his blood and he hates his kind. And, truthfully, he makes this blatantly clear as the group continues on. The glares passing Silvers sworn to monarchies are so pressing that Maeve doesn't even know if she would be able to withhold herself under them.
Marzia and Tristan bring up the rest of the ranks. Both seem energized by the mission, itching for another fight after their defeat in Piedmont. Tristan walks closer to the middle of the party, letting Maeve take the lead, so that the electricons are evenly dispersed.
Blake taps her hand at her hip. Counting steps. Her keen eyes watch the walls with blistering focus. She slides a finger over the place where the packed dirt fades to concrete. It shifts something in her, shadowing her features.
"I know what it feels like," Maeve whispers to her. "To come back as something else."
Her eyes snap to the Deuveux's, one brow raised. "What are you talking about?"
"I only went home once after I found out what I was," Maeve explains. It was only a few hours. But more than enough time to change my life again. Remembering that visit to her old village is difficult, if not painful. Cassian wasn't dead yet, but she thought he was. And she joined the Guard to avenge him. All while Matthew waited outside, leaning against his rebuilt motorcycle. Still a prince. Always a prince. She tries to shake off the memory like a bad dream. "It won't be easy, to look at familiar things and see something you don't recognize."
Blake only tightens her jaw. "This isn't my home, Deuveux. No prison is ever a home," she murmurs. "And that's all these slums are."
"So why not leave?" Maeve wants to smack Weston for his lack of grace, as well as for the rudeness of the question. Nick shakes his head, as if expecting this disappointment. Weston catches Maeve's glare and sputters, "I mean, you have these tunnels . . ."
The Deuveux is surprised by Blake's answering grin. "You wouldn't understand, Weston," she says, rolling her eyes. "You think you grew up hard, but this is harder. You thought you were tethered to that river village, trapped by what? A little money? A job? Some guards looking at you sideways?" Weston flushes deeper as Blake rattles off each word in time. "Well, we had this."
Her hand strays to her collar, pulling it aside to show her tattooed neck in full. Her occupation, her place, her prison stamped in permanent ink.
"Every one of us is a number up there," she continues, jabbing a finger at the ceiling. "You disappear, the next number in line disappears, too. And not well. Whole families have to run. And where do they go? Where can they go?"
Her voice trails off, the echo dying in the red shadows.
"I hope that's in the past now," she mumbles, if only to herself.
"I promise it is," Dawson replies from a polite distance. His angled eyes crinkle when he tries to offer a bitter smile. If nothing else, the premier is a firm reminder of what can be. How high someone like them can climb.
Blake and Maeve exchange glances. They want to believe him.
MAEVE TIES HER BANDANA into place, blinking harsh tears out of her eyes. The air itself seems to burn, and her skin smarts. It's both dry and damp at the same time, unnatural and just plain wrong.
It isn't dawn yet, but the smoky sky is lighter than it was before as the sun begins its approach from the east. A high-pitched, electric whistle blows at the end of the alley, then echoes out over the slum, from one factory to another, signaling the massive migration that is the shift change.
"The dawn walk," Blake mutters.
The sight makes Maeve's breath catch. Hundreds of Red workers flood the streets of New Town. Men and women and children, old and young, all trudging together through the poisoned air. Like some grim parade. Most look at their feet, exhausted by their work, broken by this place.
It feeds the rage always burning in Maeve's heart.
Blake slips into their midst, with Weston, Maeve, and Nick on her heels. Behind them, the rest of their band melts into the countless dirty face, blending in withe ease.
Gently, Blake nudges Maeve to the side, moving her in line with the rest of the Red tech workers. They step quickly, in time with one another, creating space for the new shift to pass. As they do, Blake shoves her dust into the pocket of her jacket. All around the street, members of their ranks do the same.
So does Maeve.
Marking themselves.
The escorts are not Scarlet Guard. Or they weren't, before all this started. Their allegiances are to one another, to their slum. To small resistances, the only kind possible in here.
Maeve's is a man with tanned skin and inviting eyes. Blake's foot taps as he approaches, her body almost radiating energy. He reaches them and clasps her arm immediately.
"Dad," Maeve hears the younger girl breathe as he pulls her into an embrace. "Where's Mom?"
He covers her hand with his own. "She's coming off shift. I told her to keep her head down and her eyes open. First bolt of lightning, she's running."
Blake exhales slowly. She dips her head, nodding to herself. "Good."
"I hope you didn't bring Ben here," her father adds, his tone light but scolding. And so familiar. It reminds Maeve of her own parents, chiding her for a broken plate.
Blake's head snaps back to find her father staring. "Of course not."
Even though the last thing she wants to do is interrupt their reunion, Maeve knows that she has to. "The power station?" she prods, looking up at the Scott man.
He glanced down at her. He has a kind face, no mean feat in a place like this. "NT has six, one for each sector. But if we cut off the central hub, that will do the job."
Mention of the plan snaps something in Blake. She straightens, focusing. "This way," she says sharply, beckoning them.
The shift change is much more crowded than even the worst days in the Stilts market. Silver officers in black uniforms keep watch. Not on the ground, on the filthy streets, but from the overarching walkways and windows of foreboding guard posts. Officers and posts Maeve knows well enough. She watches them as she passes, noting their disinterest. It's not the same disinterest Silvers show Reds at court, their way of making them feel like less than they already are. But a boredom. A disuse. Silvers aren't assigned to slum towns because they're warriors of important bloodlines. This isn't a post anyone would envy.
The guards of New Town are far weaker than any enemy Maeve is used to. And they have no idea that she and the others are already here.
Blake's father looks his daughter over, thoughtful as the group walks. Maeve shivers when his gaze passes over herself, then back to the Scott girl. "So it's true, then. You're something . . . different."
Maeve wonders what he's heard. What the Guard told their contacts in New Town. Chris' propaganda and poisoned broadcasts made clear the existence of newbloods. She wonders if the man before her knows what his daughter can do.
Blake holds his stare, his equal. "I am," she says without flinching.
"You walk with the lightning girl."
"I do."
"And a prince."
"Yes."
"And this is . . . ?" the man adds, eyeing Weston.
With a loopy grin, Weston touches his brow and angles himself into a shallow how. "I'm the muscle."
Mr. Scott almost laughs as he takes in Weston's tall but lean form. "Sure, kid."
The buildings around them grow higher, stacked precariously. There are cracks in the walls and windows, and every block needs a fresh coat of paint ━ or just the good wash of a rainstorm. The workers around the group of five begin to peel off, heading into different apartment structures with waves and calls. Nothing seems amiss.
"We're grateful for your help, Mr. Scott," Maeve says under her breath, keeping her focus ahead. A few Silver guards stand on an arch some yards away, and she lowers her face as she passes. Nick does the same.
"Thank the elders, not me," Mr. Scott answers. He doesn't bother hiding from the guards. He's nothing to them. "They've been ready for this for a long time."
Maeve watches Nick's face twist in shame. "Because someone should have done something a long time ago," he says softly, shaking his head. Maeve agrees.
Someone like you, Matthew. You knew these places existed, and for who? For what?
Blake grits her teeth. "At least we're doing something now." At her side, she clenches a fist. With her ability, she could kill the two guards above them if she wanted. Drop them right off the arch.
But they pass by without incident, stepping into the shadow of the slouching, grey slum apartment building at the end of the residential street. It looks like the toy blocks of a giant child, piled high against the hazy blue. One section is taller than the rest, dotted with grimy, dim windows.
It's where Maeve needs to be.
Mr. Scott glances at her, then at the structure. "Up you go, lightning girl," he says, his voice soft. "Get high, get loud. That's the plan, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir," Maeve mumbles. Already, she calls for her lightning, feeling it respond deep in her bones.
When they reach the base of the building, they're almost alone on the street, joined only by shift stragglers. Blake turns to her father, eyes wide. "How much time do we have?"
He turns over his wrist and glances at his watch. Then, he frowns, the lines cutting deep. "None," he replies. "You have to go."
She blinks rapidly, her jaw working. "OK."
"Sir, I believe this is yours," Weston says, reaching into his jacket. He pulls free a small pistol, and extra rounds of ammunition, neat in their case.
Mr. Scott looks at the gun like a snake that might bite. He hesitates, until Blake takes it from Weston and presses it to her father's chest. She widens her eyes, pleading.
"Point and click, Dad. Don't hesitate," she says. "Silvers won't."
Nick lowers his head when Mr. Scott glances over at him. Then, slowly, gingerly, the older man rucks the gun away into the satchel at his side.
"Fine," he mutters. He clears his throat. "The new-shift teaches at the hub are informed. They'll power down the city with your first strike, after the signal crosstown. Coordinate the systematic shutoff with your storm. Silvers won't know we're in on it. Buy some time."
This part of the plan was eagerly arranged by both the Guard and their contacts within the slum city.
"Everyone knows about the charges?" Maeve asks, if only to be sure.
Mr. Scott's expression darkens and he scowls. "Everyone who can be trusted. We might have our own resistance, but we've got informants all over."
Maeve swallows hard, trying not to think about what might happen if the wrong person knows what's about to happen. Chris himself might descend on New Town and crush the insurgency. Bring this poisoned, polluted place smashing down on all of them, Maeve included. And if they fail here, where will that leave the other slum cities? What will it prove?
That nothing can be done. That these people can't be saved.
Weston notes her unease and nudges Maeve's shoulder, if only to snap her out of it. Blake is, understandably, more concerned with her father.
"OK," the silencer says, "just please fucking watch where you step."
Mr. Scott clucks his tongue, "Don't curse, Blake."
Without warning, his daughter smiles and throws her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. "Hug Mom for me," Maeve hears her murmur.
"You'll hug her yourself soon enough," Mr. Scott whispers back, lifting her slightly off the ground. Their eyes shut in unison as they hold on to each other ━ and this fragile, fleeting moment.
Maeve can't help but think of her own family, so far away. Safe. Tucked up in the mountains, protected by thousands of miles and an entire other country. Living with hope for the first time in too many years. It isn't fair, especially to Blake, who has survived far worse than Maeve has. But she's glad that she doesn't have to shoulder the burden of her family's safety alongside everything else, at the same time. She can barely handle the danger to the people she loves who are still fighting.
Blake pulls away from her father first. It's an act of untold strength. As is letting her go. Mr. Scott steps back, sniffing, looking at his feet. Hiding a sudden redness around his eyes. Tears prick at Blake, too, and she scuffs her boots against the dirty street, kicking up dust in distraction.
"Shall we?" she says, turning to Maeve. Her eyes swim with tears.
"Let's climb."
THE FOUR OF THEM watch the city with hawk focus, each at a window looking in a different direction. Maeve wipes at the glass with her sleeve. It only loves the grim around, leaving brown streaks. The attic space dogs with dust every time any of them move, kicking up another cloud. Weston coughs into his hand, a hoarse sound.
"I see smoke on this side, in between those factories," he says.
At her window, Blake raises a shoulder. "Autoworks sector," she replies without turning around. "The assembly lines jammed half an hour ago. The shift will be turned out, and they'll idle around the gates asking for the day's wage. Overseers will refuse. Officers will try to keep peace." She grins to herself.
Nick raises his eyebrows, one of his own smiles creeping onto his face. "Big mess."
"What color is the smoke, Weston?" Maeve asks, still scanning her section of the horizon. From this height, New Town seems smaller. But just as depressing. All grey and foggy, hung with low clouds of brutal haze. It pulses, sluggish, the electricity almost overwhelming.
"Uh, normal?" Weston sputters. "Grey."
Maeve huffs low in her throat. Nick barks out a laugh at the Kliffe boy's answer.
"Normal. Just the smokestacks," Blake explains, correcting Weston's poor explanation. "Not the signal."
Weston shifts, coughing some more. "What are we looking for again?"
"Anything that isn't normal," Nick sighs, shaking his head.
"Right," Weston grumbles.
Blake taps her knuckles against the greasy window she stares out of. "You know, maybe this rebellion would be further along if they didn't rely on teenagers so much," she observes, looking thoughtful.
Nick sends a playful smirk at Weston. Maeve knows he plans to lighten the mood before any words even leave his mouth. "Especially ones who can't read."
Weston hacks out a laugh, rising to the bait. "I can read."
"But colors are beyond your comprehension?" the prince snaps back with whip quickness.
The Red boy shrugs and raises his hands. "I'm just making conversation."
Nick scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Because we really need distractions right now, Weston."
Maeve presses her lips together as she stares past them at Blake, both of the girls on the verge of breaking into laughter. "Is this what Matthew and I sound like when we argue?" the Deuveux asks with a raised brow. "Because if so, I sincerely apologize."
Weston does scarlet, flushing, as Nick quickly turns back to his window, almost pressing his face to the glass.
"You two are about ten times worse," the Kliffe boy finally says, voice laced with irritation.
At his own window, Nick snorts, "You mean a hundred."
"Actually, I think it's more like a thousand," Blake chimes in, sending a smirk at Maeve. The older girl just rolls her eyes playfully.
"I walked into that, didn't I?" the Deuveux mutters, turning back to her window.
Weston huffs out a laugh, "Absolutely."
Then, suddenly, Blake slams a hand to her window, hissing. "Green smoke. Weapons sector. Shit."
Nick jumps to her side, drawing a flame to his hand. Weston stands taller, too, taking out his gun. Maeve turns to the younger girl. All three of them eye Blake worriedly.
"Why 'shit'?" Weston asks.
"Weapons sector has the most security," she says quickly. With even motions, she peels off her jacket, revealing her own gun and a wicked knife Maeve hopes she never has to use. "For obvious reasons."
The Deuveux exhales slowly. Inside her, the lightning snaps and crackles. "More likely to blow up, too."
With a roll of his shoulders, Nick dons a scowl. He touches Blake lightly on the arm, pulling her back from the window. "Let's make sure that doesn't happen," he mutters, kicking out the glass.
Shards explode out and in, shattering with the force of the blow. Still grimacing, he wipes one jacketed sleeve around the frame, knocking loose any jagged edges. He then steps back to let Maeve lean out and brace herself on the ledge. A smoky wind blows against her face, smelling of fumes and distant fire. Without hesitation, she lips one leg out the window, then the other. Weston grabs hold of the back of her shirt, while Nick has a firm grip around her waist.
Maeve looks skyward, focusing on the blue dawn as it melts to pink. Even though the sky is choked with corrupted clouds, they make for lovely colors. Her heartbeat thrums, rising to a steady rhythm. The lightning in her pulses with it, feeding off the electricity below. She clenches a fist, trying to remember what Marzia taught her.
Storm lightning is the strongest and most destructive kind electricons can make. It gathers; it grows; it breaks. Overhead, the vibrantly colored clouds begin to darken and swirl, condensing with Maeve's power. Before her eyes, identical shadows bloom over two other parts of the city. Marzia and Jeremiah. The three of them make a triangle, with the electricity hub at the center. The city spreads out before them like a killing ground. And Tristan is somewhere down there, more dangerous than any of the other three, ready to loose his pulse lightning on anyone who might get too close.
Blue lightning flashes first, illuminating the curls of a rising thunderhead to Maeve's left. The roar of close thunder cracks over them and she feels Weston flinch, the motion tugging her shirt. She stands firm, keeping her grip on the window frame. All the while, Nick's grip on her waist is stiff and protective, never faltering.
Purple and green join the fray as their storms collide, raining bolts down on their targets. The hub, a domed holding near the center of the city, is easily distinguished by the tangle of wires reaching in every direction. Even from this distance, Maeve can feel the low hum of it.
"Make it rain," Weston snarls.
Maeve bites back a sigh (Nick lets his loose, hanging low and annoyed). "That's not how it works," the Deuveux hisses back, throwing a bolt across the sky. The other electricons do as well, their blue and green racing toward Maeve's purple.
Their strike hit directly above the hub, birthing a blinding flash. On cue, the hum of electricity from the building disappears as their allies take the hub system offline. They shut it down more quickly than even the electricons could, and with far fewer casualties.
All over the city, smokestacks stop belching out their poison. Assembly lines grind to a halt. Even transports on the streets, isolated with their own energy sources, slow or pull over, surprised by the sudden shutdown. The storm continues, a three-headed monster, sending cracks of lightning across the sky in all directions. Maeve keeps her bolts away from the ground for now. She can't aim them well at this distance and she doesn't want to risk innocent lives. Not to mention the Guard's explosives, which are now set all over the city. One spark from her could set off a chain of bursting death.
"All stop," Blake murmurs. "No power means no work. Shifts turned out all over. Workers baying for their wages. Officers distracted, overseers overrun."
"How long until ━ "
The first detonation cuts Weston off, rumbling a little too close for comfort. An explosion rises to the group's left, two streets away. At one of the city gates. Rock and smoke streak through the air in a dusty, dragging arc. The next bomb obliterates another gate, followed by the other two. Then, the interior charges blow. Beneath security posts, guard towers, Silver barracks, the overseers' quarters. Any and all Silver targets. Maeve winces with each strike, trying not to think of how much blood they'll be spilling today. On both sides.
The four of them watch in silence, cowed by the sight. More smoke, more dust, and now ash. Blake's chest rises and falls as her breath turns to panting. Her wide, dark eyes dart back and forth, always returning to the factories marking the weapons sector. Nothing explodes there.
"The Scarlet Guard isn't stupid enough to put bombs beneath a munitions depot," Maeve tells the girl, hoping to comfort her a little.
Then, it explodes.
The resulting force knocks them all backward, sending them sprawling over broken glass and the dusty attic. Blake scrambles up first, bleeding from a cut on her forehead. "Then that wasn't the Guard," she yelps, pulling Maeve to her feet.
The Deuveux's ears ring, dulling all sound. She shakes her head from side to side, trying to get her bearings. Blake takes her wrists and she instantly jumps, flinching out of the Scott girl's grasp. "No," Maeve snaps, unable to stand the feeling.
Blake doesn't react and instead focuses on helping Nick drag Weston up. His lip is busted and one of his hands has a gash from the glass, but the rest of him seems whole.
"I think we might want to get our feet on the ground," he says, focusing on the cracked ceiling above them.
"Agreed." Maeve's voice sounds oddly strangles as they bolt for the door.
The stairs are little more than a tight spiral, reaching down and down and down. A chore to climb, and even worse to descend, each step a jolt through Maeve's knees. She pulls her lightning to her fingertips, letting the purple sparks gather and split, ready to run through anyone in their way.
Nick stays in the rear, making sure the other three get out before he does. Weston, on the other hand, overtakes Maeve easily, moving down the stairs two at a time. She hates it when he does that, and he knows it. The boy even has the spine to smirk back at her, winking.
In that moment, Blake screams, seeing the Silver guard before the others do.
He waves an arm, sending Weston sideways over the railing with the force of telekinetic ability. Maeve's vision slows as Weston topples, body sprawled in the air, and she feels like someone is digging a knife into her gut. The ringing in her ears threatens to split her head, rising to a shriek. Faintly, she hears Nick's terrified shout at both the lightbulbs popping due to her fear, along with the might of Weston's fall. They plunge into darkness.
The guard drops before he can turn his wrath on the remaining three. Silence eats away at his edges, eyes rolling as he lands hard on his knee. He does this whilst simultaneously spitting fire and coughing lightning. He dies before Weston even gets to the ground.
The crack and thud of the Kliffe boy hitting the railing below makes Maeve sick. She, Blake, and Nick sprint as fast as they can, directly into two other Silver guards working their way up to them. A shiver freezes the steps beneath their feet and Maeve's boots slide, almost taking her down. She slices the man apart with a rocketing bolt, while his partner, a stoneskin, topples under Blake's wrath. They cut them apart, knives through paper. Nick doesn't even bother, going straight for Weston.
The prince reaches the fallen boy first. He had landed sprawled across several rows of steps, and Nick grabs at his wrist, desperate to find a pulse. Maeve knows he isn't dead before the Sturniolo even confirms it. Because when she reaches him, the first thing she sees is his chest, rising and falling. Shallow, but moving. Breathing. All whilst simultaneously choking on blood. Red and crimson, scarlet, ruby. The color is so bright Maeve wants to shut her eyes. He coughs violently, flecking her and the other two. The hot droplets pepper Maeve's face and she wrinkles her nose.
"Get him up ━ we have to get him up," she mumbles, scrambling over him. Blake and Nick follow suit, both deathly quiet. Maeve wants to scream.
Weston can hardly speak and he doesn't bother trying, but he does attempt to rise on his own. Maeve almost slaps him. "Let us," she snaps, throwing his arm around her. "Nick, the other side."
He's already there, heaving. Weston is a deadweight, but the two of them manage.
If it were only a matter of his weight, it would be easier ━ but it isn't. Weston jolts and hacks, painting the steps with his own blood. Maeve doesn't bother trying to assess the damage. She just knows she has to get him out, get him down, get him to any one of the healers all over the city. I need Dawson, I need someone. Her chest tightens, but she refuses to feel the agony or the strain of Weston. Her legs burn with every new step. Down, down, down, down.
"Mae ━ " Weston sobs, trying to speak.
"STOP IT."
He's still warm, still breathing, still able to somewhat speak while he also retches blood all over himself. That's enough for Maeve. Probably broken ribs, cracked bone, sharp and digging into his organs. Stomach, lungs, liver. Stay away from the heart, she begs to no one. Or perhaps someone. Whatever higher power there may be. She just knows that they don't have time for him to survive a pierced heart.
Maeve tastes salt and realizes she's crying, washing her face of his blood with her tears.
The floors pass in a blur, sliding by. Weston sucks down a wet, rattling breath; his face and hands are paler by the second. All they can do is run.
More guards charge up the stairs, baying like hounds on a scent. Maeve barely sees them as it's silently become Blake's duty to take them out, considering she isn't helping hold Weston. Many fall quickly, bleeding from the eyes and mouth and ears as the young girl hammers her ability through their bodies. Still, more and more come, and even when Nick and Maeve begin to send their wrath within them, the latter hardly even feeling their nerves shred beneath her lightning, there's far too many, flooding up to meet the group of four.
"This way!" Blake barks, her voice shaking as she slams her body through a door on the next landing.
Maeve and Nick follow without thought, crossing through a cramped and meager apartment. Where Blake is taking them, the Deuveux can't say. All she can do is keep hold of Weston and her lightning, the only two things in her whole world.
"Hold on," she hears herself whisper to the boy, too low for anyone to even hear.
Blake leads them to the closest window, another square of grimy glass. But this one opens onto an adjoining rooftop. She knocks out the window, using one leg to kick the pane free. Maeve's lightning and Nick's fire hold their backs from pursuing Silvers, allowing them enough time to clamber out and onto the roof.
The officers follow, squeezing their larger and broader bodies through the broken window and onto the ashy roof behind them. Beneath the torturous, thundering sky.
Once there's enough distance between them and the guards, Maeve gently lowers Weston, laying him down against the concrete. His lashes flutter, eyes glassy, as Nick takes his face in his hands softly. He looks so scared for the boy. In the back of her mind, Maeve remembers a similar story of when Nick lost a boy that he loved very much. He doesn't want this to end the same; and neither does she. Blake stands over the pair of boys, her stance wide and defensive.
Maeve puts her back to them, facing down the Silvers struggling into the roof. She counts six already on it, with more squeezing the one through. What their abilities might be, if they blond to any family she recognizes, she doesn't know. And she doesn't care.
As soon as the last Silver's feet hit the concrete, she unleashes.
The storm above her, purple and violent, blinding with her fury. The lightning swallows the guards' bodies, killing them so quickly Maeve doesn't even feel them. Not their nerves, not their skeletons. Nothing.
When the lightning clears, it's the smell that brings her back. Weston's blood, ash, burned hair, and cooked flesh. Blake makes a gulping sound, like she's trying not to vomit. Nick looks as though he's fighting to keep the worst of his sobs contained, but some slip through, still clutching onto Weston. Maeve looks away from the charred remains of the Silvers. She doesn't want to see what she's done, and how only their buttons and guns remain intact, smoking with heat.
She barely has time to heave a breath before a deafening crack splits the singed air, and the roof shudders beneath their feet. Nick immediately covers Weston's body with his own, Blake following suit, as the entire building lurches, starting to lean. Slowly at first, then faster and faster.
Maeve falls to her knees, reaching for Weston, Nick, and Blake as the structure buckles. Her storm was too strong, the apartment building too poorly made. The walls crumble on one side, making them tip. All she can do is hang on as the roof snaps and falls, sliding forward at a steady incline. She slides with it, fingers grasping for anything to hold on to. Her fist closes on the collar of Weston's jacket, sticky with hot, wet blood. His breath rattles, weaker than ever, as they move with the collapsing roof.
The ground rises to meet them, a fist of concrete. Silver officers wait below, ready to kill the four of them if the collapse doesn't. Maeve clenches her teeth, bracing for impact. She's never felt so helpless and afraid.
At first, she can only blink at the sudden, translucent blue glow in front of her. It hovers, holding up the edge of the tipping roof, stopping the falling slab. But not the four of them. They slide along the angle, dragged through the ash until they smack against the shield. Bullets sound below, and out of instinct, Maeve squeezes her eyes shut, curling up.
They ping harmlessly off the shield, sending ripples of force dancing beneath them.
Dawson.
Maeve opens one eye to see a massacre below, a smoky haze of blue and green and white light i g as it branches among the Silvers. Tristan's white darts fall four of them in an instant, while Marzia and Jeremiah batter the rest with their whipping electricity. The shield moves as they fight, letting the roof down gently. Maeve and the others hit the ground with a low this, sending up a curtain of grey dust.
Maeve's adrenaline makes Weston almost weightless. She barely notices the strain as she and Nick lift him again, each of them throwing one of his arms around their shoulders. Still breathing, still breathing. They charge through the ash, without thought for the lightning or the Silvers still fighting.
"Healers!" Maeve screams, straining her voice as she shouts loudly enough to be heard over the din. "We need healers!"
Nick and Blake echo the girl's cries, their voice carrying.
The premier meets them head-on, his personal guard fanned out around him. There's a smear of blood on his cheek. Red blood. Maeve doesn't have time to wonder who it belongs to.
"We need ━ " she gasps out instead, but Weston shudders, doubling over himself. He almost tumbles out of Maeve and Nick's grasps and forces them to stop. Another wave of blood spatters the ground, painting the Deuveux's boots.
She almost faints with relief when the healer charges forward from Dawson's shoulders. The newblood has a familiar face, but Maeve doesn't have time or energy to remember his name.
"Lay him down," the man barks, and the pair holding him gratefully obeys.
The only thing Maeve can do is hold Weston's hand, his skin cold against the electrical heat of her own. He's still alive. They made it in time. They were enough. She watches the same realization flash across Nick's face, and some of his strain falls away. He holds the Kliffe boy's other hand. It's all very symmetrical.
Blake, on the other hand, kneels over Weston, silent and staring, hands knitted in her lap. She's afraid to touch him.
"Internal bleeding," the healer mutters, ripping open Weston's shirt. His abdomen is almost black with bruises. As the healer dances his fingers, pressing and prodding, they begin to recede. Weston grimaces, teeth gritted against the strange sensation. "It's like someone took a hammer to your ribs."
"Feels like it," Weston grinds out.
His voice is strained but alive. Maeve squeezes her eyes shut, and she wishes she had gods to thank for his life. His grip tightens on her hand, squeezing her fingers. Forcing her to look at him.
Brown eyes meet her own. The same eyes that have followed her her entire life. Eyes that almost shut forever.
"It's OK, Mae. I'm fine," he whispers. He glances between her and Nick. "I'm not going anywhere."
They stay by him, silent guardians, as the healer works. Maeve flinches in time with the distant rumble of explosions and artillery. Some of it is far away, beyond New Town, muffled by the miles. The assault of Bay has begun, a three-pronged attack to take the city.
The electricons close in around Maeve, picking their way back through the dozen Silver corpses littering the road. Tristan idles, turning over a few with his foot, while Jeremiah looks on.
Marzia gives Maeve the smallest wave as she approaches. Her scarf is gone and ash colors her blue hair in streaks of grey. One hand twists idly at her side, and the thunderheads above, silent for now, spin with motion. She winks at the Deuveux, trying to put on a brave face.
Jeremiah and Tristan are more blatant in their grimaces. Both keep their hands free, ready to push back any assault.
But no one seems to be coming. Either the fighting is concentrated elsewhere, or it's already over.
"Thank you," Maeve murmurs, voice cracking.
Tristan's reply is swift. "We protect our own."
"Still more to go, but out of the woods."
Maeve looks back to see the healer ease Weston into a sitting position.
Nick helps gingerly, putting a hand to the bare skin on Weston's back. Suddenly, Maeve feels like she's intruding on something she shouldn't. With the back of her hand, she quickly swipes away the blood, swear, and tears dirtying her face.
"I'm going to find out what's going on," she mumbled, getting to her feet before anyone can protest.
Her boots crunch through the debris as she beelines for the electricons. Jeremiah offers a weak grin. He rips the covering off his head and runs a hand over his green hair.
"Looks like he'll be OK?" he says, jutting his chin back at Weston.
Maeve exhales slowly. "Looks like it. What about you all?"
Marzia puts her arm around Maeve, lithe as a cat. "Had less trouble than you, that's for sure. I think we brought a bit more firepower than anyone might expect for a place like this."
"The Nortans here were outnumbered and unprepared," Tristan says. "Silver kings don't expect anyone to care, let alone fight, for a Red slum."
Maeve blinks at the implication, surprised. "So we won?"
"They're certainly acting like we did," Tristan replies. He gestures with a hand, pointing to the Montfort and Guard soldiers now holding the street. They could be Red techies, if not for the machine guns hanging off them. A few seem to be laughing, exchanging pleasantries with the premier as he walks among them.
"Wonder how they're doing in Harbor Bay," Marzia voices, kicking up a puff of dust.
Maeve lowers her eyes. Her heart still thunders in her chest, pumping adrenaline through her veins. It makes it hard to think about anything beyond the street. Let alone the people she loves, fighting and perhaps dying a few miles away. For a second, she tries to forget. Collect herself. Breathe deep and easy. It doesn't work.
"Premier," she barks, crossing to him with force.
He looks back, smiling, and even waves a hand to motion her over. Like she needs an invitation in the first place. "Deuveux," he says. "Congratulations on a job well done."
It's hard for Maeve to feel at all celebratory with Weston lying a few feet away, even with a healer patching him up. That was far too close.
"What about the city? Any word from Cyrus?"
Dawson's smile freezes in place. "Some."
Something tightens in Maeve's chest. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demands. "Is she alive?"
Dawson indicates one of his shoulders, her pack a mess of wires and radio equipment. "As of a few minutes ago, yes. I spoke to the general myself."
And Matthew? Maeve bites back the urge to ask about him, at least by name. "Did everything go to plan?" she forces out, her mind flying over the many facets of the Harbor Bay invasion.
The premier's face tightens. "Did you expect it to?" he murmurs.
Maeve almost snarls in frustration. Another round of artillery thunders miles away.
As the adrenaline in her ebbs, a cold takes over, threatening to numb her body. She looks back for a moment, watching Nick as he kneels with Weston. They aren't talking. Both of them are wide-eyed, nearly pinned down by exhaustion and the aftertaste of fear. She doesn't know where Blake went, so she glances back over to the electricons. All three of them stare back, resolute.
Ready to follow. Ready to protect their own.
Maeve's decision only takes a split second.
"Get me a transport."
AUTHOR'S NOTE
this was insanely long
we need a ship name for nick and weston